


Mina de Malfois and the Changing of the Guard

by Lilith



Series: Yuletide [7]
Category: Mina de Malfois
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Gen, Humor, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17049185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith/pseuds/Lilith
Summary: Mina’s latest novel project isn’t getting off to a good, or any, start. Arc suggests taking a quick, refreshing dip back into fandom.





	Mina de Malfois and the Changing of the Guard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burglebezzlement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/gifts).



I’d been communing with a blank Google document for some time when Arc appeared at my side, jarring me out of my reverie. I don’t know quite how she does it - it’s not as though she makes much noise, never mind stooping to such sordid depths as, say, poking one in the back. Her very presence just demands attention, politely but firmly, all while coming off as so cool and unassuming that one could hardly credit the experience. I’ve never seen anyone else manage it, and if it weren’t dear old Arc, I might even find it rather eerie.

To tell the truth, at this particular moment I found it more than a little irritating, the way one often does when feeling caught out. There isn’t a dashed lot more annoying than having one’s nearest and dearest unexpectedly witnessing one blatantly skiving off.

“Still feeling stuck?”

I winced. Her tone wasn’t unsympathetic, per say, but it wasn’t exactly as sweet balm to the weary writer’s soul, either. It was something approaching bland, and its directness grated a bit on what was, to be frank, rather a sore subj.

“It’s all part of the process,” I responded with quiet dignity. “Important to give inspiration room to breathe, and all that. Pausing for reflection is essential to creative productivity.”

“I see,” she replied, once again in a bally noncommittal way that by its very lack of obvious accord implied the latter. A tonal vote of no confidence.

Sometimes I still wonder what I’ve let myself in for, marrying her.

“I suspect that a change of scene might serve a similar purpose, don’t you?” My view of the blinking cursor was smoothly obscured by a sheaf of papers and documents, which I automatically reached up to steady. Prominent at their front was a printed email, proclaiming in unnecessarily large and gaudy font, YOUR REGISTRATION FOR SHARESCON.

I blinked, then opened my mouth to protest, and found a well-manicured finger laid lightly over it. This, dear reader, was more effective than I’m entirely comfortable admitting.

“It’ll do you good to get away from work for a few days,” she said firmly, tapping my upper lip once before withdrawing. I closed my mouth. “You’ve been in the doldrums for weeks now—“

“I’ve been researching—“

“You’ve been falling into Wikipedia tangents,” she corrected. Which was a bit unfair, really, as I’d also spent a good chunk of the previous evening on TVTropes. It’s important to have a really good grasp of the conventions of a new genre before diving in headfirst, dash it.

“When was the last time you let yourself just relax and enjoy a piece of media? You’ve lost touch with the fans,” she continued bluntly, turning to tap away at her tablet.

I wanted to argue, but the thing was that Arc had a point as usual, damn her. These days, it was hard for me to lose myself in a show without analyzing the structure, or read a book without getting distracted by comparisons. And while I strive to be approachable—the occasional Q&A session and appreciative sharing of fanart are essential to foster the devotion of my adoring readership—the fact was that my participation in social media and internet culture was all calculated, part of my job. I barely knew what the fans were doing these days, when they weren’t chirping their convoluted little theories at me or breathlessly expressing their devotion. Occasionally I’d step outside posting cover art announcements for long enough to reblog a handful of interesting photos of Eastern European architecture or a really gorgeous fantasy fashion spread—all tagged as “inspiration,” naturally—but really, these newfangled platforms were beyond me. I didn’t precisely have my finger on fandom’s pulse, if that’s the phrase I mean.

With impeccable timing, Arc delivered the killing blow. “I find the prospect quite appealing, myself,” she murmured. “Visiting the early days together, in a sense.”

She wasn’t even looking at me, but her posture tensed, almost imperceptibly. Even the barest iota of vulnerability is akin to a grand declaration from Arc. I folded like a cheap book display.

There had been a slight coolness between us ever since I’d had the brilliant idea to offer mystery crates as prizes to the first 100 fans who preordered the upcoming final book in my pseudo-high-fantasy post-apocalyptic YA trilogy. Being modest by nature, in spite of my undeniable talent and well-earned fame, I will admit that the reception was a bit of the unexpected. I may have been slightly carried away with the, ahem, stylized bath products1, although really, who would have thought anyone would be silly enough to try and use them for purposes other than working up a good lather?

Anyway, nothing beats just a touch of notoriety to really whip anticipation to a fever pitch, what? Presales had spiked after the ensuing tweetstorm; not even Arc could deny it. She was, I put it to you, mostly put out that she hadn’t been consulted on this particular marketing scheme before it was out the gate. It’s true that I do usually run these things by her, but it was a last-minute burst of inspiration, and she was out of town. I remained firm that sometimes, a celebrated author has to go it on her own, without waiting for the permission of her archivist-cum-editor and spouse. Even when said spouse has the capacity to ice over as thoroughly and imperturbably as mine can when sufficiently roused.

Under the circs, any softening on Arc’s part was well worth encouraging, and while it’s important to occasionally show one’s editors where the creative genius ultimately lies, this was a small enough concession to make. It would be fun to get out there among the old haunts, in spirit at least, and to travel incognito amongst the no doubt throngs of Mina D. Malloy admirers present. I had been a trifle concerned about my hair dresser’s free hand at a recent appointment, but the partially-cropped dye-job look had grown on me, and I certainly bore a reduced resemblance to my jacket photos.

Besides, there was a rumor that both Murder Husbands might be in attendance, and goodness knows I’ve always found the skinny one rather edible.2 I may have let the fannish side down a bit, but I am human.

 

I was feeling buoyant as I wandered at a leisurely pace through the dealer’s room, even though I was doing so solo; Arc, naturally, had been roped into a last-minute spot on a panel about the changing nature of disseminating and archiving fanfiction in a shifting online landscape. It was a coup for the organizers, I’m sure, having one of the founders of the Ourchive3 present. Unable to sit through yet another discussion of the relative merits of editorial boards versus wide-open access, much less the inevitable tussling over content warnings, I had left her to it.

Instead of feeling lonely, I was filled with a warm homecoming glow as I strolled past booths selling lovingly packaged self-published books of smutty fanart, media-inspired knitwear, and so forth. Everywhere you looked, fen were doing what they do best: being messily, brazenly, gloriously enthusiastic. Squeeing, arguing, typing frantically into smartphones to provide live updates to their sadly absent compatriots online. I passed a group of highly varied meme cosplayers posing for a photograph that would be incomprehensible to all but the most niche of viewers, and my heart went out to them a bit, I don’t mind telling you. Is this - εїз - family?4

At the same time, there was an entirely different thrill of glee that went through me every time I saw what were clearly loving renditions of my own characters, tucked in between Ghost Soup Infidel Blue5 fanart, or spotted a youthful enthusiast proudly sporting a familiar quotation on a t-shirt. Sad to say, but I’d become rather used to interacting with my fans in an official capacity as Mina D. Malloy, though they certainly never ceased to touch my heart with their devotion. It was something else to view them, unsuspecting, from the vantage point of one of their own. And to see myself projected back into the context of my own fannish days of yore.

I was beginning to feel that this trip might have some real merit after all, even apart from appeasing Arc. Reinvigorating, that’s the word.

And speaking of vigor, just then, I caught sight of yet another form of fannish enthusiasm. Turning into a corridor, I saw one of the panel rooms up ahead of me, where a t-shirted and nametagged volunteer was determinedly barring entry to a ragtag crowd of fresh-faced youngsters holding signs.

Well, that certainly did take me back. Curious, I edged closer to the throng, trying to get a good look at some of their signs:

YOUR FAVE ISN’T PROBLEMATIC, HE’S ABUSIVE

IF U HAVE TO WARN, Y DO U HAVE TO SHARE?6

STOP! IS YOUR SHIP UNHEALTHY?

And, succinctly: PEDOPHILES!!7 Although the sign really didn’t do much to clarify whether it was an objection or an enthusiastic cheer, it must be said.

I edged up to a girl with bright purple hair and a sign that read, CLEAN UP FANDOM NOW, adorned with a just recognizable drawing of a sponge and soap bubbles. “What’s going on?” I asked curiously.

She didn’t look up, obviously distracted by the argument going on between a few of her compatriots and the furiously whispering convention volunteer. “It’s just disgusting, isn’t it?” Her tone was acidic enough to curdle milk.

“It is?” I peered at the typewritten sign taped to the door up ahead, trying to make it out through the gesticulating bodies and posterboards. It read, “Age Difference and Age Play in Fic: Be Good For Daddy.”

“It’s so harmful,” she affirmed8, waving her sign for emphasis. “Pairings with big age differences reinforce the kind of harmful social messages that lead impressionable young people”—she couldn’t have been a day over nineteen—“into abusive, damaging situations where they can’t consent. Not to mention the institutionally imbalanced power dynamics, like shipping teachers and students.”

I winced a little internally, being well aware that the dynamic between academic librarians and students, while not exactly identical, probably fit into this unacceptable category as well.

“Isn’t one of the great things about fiction the way it gives us opportunities to safely explore forbidden topics and ideas?” I asked cautiously, aware that I was treading familiar ground, but hoping that perhaps the conversation had not, after all, entirely reverted back to its earliest infancy.9

“Fiction,” she said with the level of righteous conviction one only sees from the very young and from the occasional campaigning politician, “is for modeling the world as it should be.” She turned a suspicious eye on me, and her frown deepened. “Wait, how old are you? Are you here with someone?”

I blinked, completely thrown. I’ve been told that I have a youthful freshness about me, but this seemed absurd to the point of lunacy.

“I’m plenty old enough,” I tried for a bit of dry humor, putting on my best Arc impression - not that I could come close to matching the original.

“Well yeah,” she scoffed, unimpressed. “I mean, you must be at least thirty, right? It’s kind of gross for you to be in our space like this, you know? Inappropriate.”10

Heat crept into my cheeks, as I began to suspect what she might be getting at. “I’m a fan,” I said firmly, although part of me was traitorously aware that I hadn’t been much of one, recently. “I’ve been writing fic since I was y—“ I choked a little on the dreaded phrase, and she raised her eyebrows disdainfully and turned away, nudging the person next to her. “If I’m hanging around cons when I’m old, promise you’ll put me out of my misery?” Her friend groaned, glancing back at me as they agreed.

Well, I mean to say! If these whippersnappers had any idea who they were speaking to … I drew myself up, preparing to mount a defense, when a familiar soft touch between my shoulder blades mollified me a bit. Just then, the harried volunteer was joined by several others as the doors to the panel room opened, and people began to emerge. Not wanting to witness the inevitable confrontation between the attendees and the protestors, I allowed Arc to take my arm and draw me away.

“She said I was too old for fandom, Arc,” I fumed. “I think she even insinuated that I might be some kind of predator!”

She just nodded. “This sort of thing is the reason I’ve been urging the rest of the board to put more emphasis on the Fannish Historical Society11 as well as the Ourchive. The internet provides unprecedented opportunity for connection, but contemporary platforms are increasingly impermanent. It’s easy for intergenerational knowledge and communication to be lost if we don’t make an effort to back it up.”

I nodded gamely enough, soothed by the familiar lecturing of an impassioned archivist. An archivist whose warm hand was still tucked into the crook of my elbow, with the other folded over it. I began to contemplate other directions in which I might encourage Arc’s passions.

She threw an … authoritative glance my way12, and I didn’t bother suppressing the shiver or the warmth it left in its wake. There are advantages to having been around the block a few times, after all, and I’m certainly not anyone’s student anymore.

 

Somewhat later that afternoon, I stepped from the hotel room, refreshed and at peace with the world. Misplaced youthful snubbing was as so much water off the proverbial duck’s backside. A little adversity is an essential component of the life of any truly great artist, after all.

Naïve and lacking in historical perspective though these new fans might be, I was prepared to listen to what they had to say with the patience of a mentor and elder stateswoman13, as it were. Hadn’t the fannish venerables done as much for me in my own day? Youthful enthusiasm was to be tolerated, steered, and molded, and while there was no need to take it to heart, it was both magnanimous and potentially beneficial to self to bend an ear in that direction. These were, after all, very much my intended audience. In my nostalgic haze, I’d almost managed to forget that important fact. 

It was with this lofty tenor of thought that I perused the convention program, deciding that I should find some panel to attend, and resolved to sit patiently in the back and absorb.

“From Fandom To Fame: Fic Writers Who Crossed The Professional Divide.” Well, I mean to say. How could I possibly resist?

 

The panel was underway when I arrived, but the volunteer at the door waved me in distractedly, too busy with her phone. She didn’t even glance up from under her spiderweb-patterned hoodie as I opened the door a crack and slipped in.

“—interesting contrast between awareness of their pasts within and outside of fandom. I bet everyone here could rattle off a list of at least five pro-fic authors and their fandom pseudonyms, right? But most of their readership probably has no idea.”

I slipped into a seat at the very back, as unobtrusively as I could, and peered through a small sea of heads and costumed headdresses toward the four people sitting at tables in the front. A blonde woman in her late twenties, wearing an impressively tailored, pseudo-Napoleonic green uniform14, was speaking into her microphone while her compatriots listened attentively.

To her left, a girl with purple wound through her twists and fake points on her ears15 nodded agreement. “Although some contemporary novelists certainly speak candidly about their former participation in general terms, and are even among our staunchest defenders in the popular press,” she added, “they still carefully avoid mentioning specifics, for the most part, don’t they? They rarely even mention which fandoms they used to belong to.”

“... ‘used to,’” the plump, androgynous Trekkie on her other side bumped the Bajoran jewelers dangling from one ear with the vehemence of their finger quotes. The other panelists chuckled and nodded knowingly.

There was a brief lull while the crowd palpably experienced a warm sense of satisfaction over their certainty that, indeed, the Powers That Be were some of us, and not just in the past tense. I beamed at their unsuspecting backs, feeling both admired and accepted.

The moderator, an uncostumed, unassuming brunette closer to my own age, turned a little towards her panelists and leaned into the mic. “What about those profic authors who take advantage of their fannish reputations, and attempt to leverage a following for their original work?”

The Trekkie shrugged. “Most of us are happy to support one of our own,” they commented. “After all, we already know we like their writing.”

Green uniform nodded. “When my favorite writer signed her first book deal, it was back on Livejournal,” she said importantly, looking as though she expected half her listeners to be personally unfamiliar with those days. “Naturally, she shared her excitement with her friendslist, and word got out from there. We were her tribe; we cooed over her baby pictures and supported her meta. Of course she wouldn’t hide her success from us, and of course we were proud to be even a little part of it.”

The elf girl gave a sardonic little smile. “Of course, it helps when they’re not blatant about trying to monetize their fandom identities,” she commented.

“You mean, most of them aren’t Mina D. Malloy?” The moderator toyed with a silver pendant, smirking back, and I stiffened. The panelists, to a fan, wore knowing, amused looks.

“She had to know that deleting her fic wouldn’t work,” the elf girl rolled her eyes, tossing back her hair. “She changed her handle enough for the barest deniability, but everyone knows16, and it keeps new fans curious.”

“Not exactly subtle,” agreed the Trekkie. “You’d think she might want to leave a reputation like that behind, wouldn’t you?”

Elf girl shrugged. “Her fans were scary,” she commented. “They stuck to her through everything, even the Josh Amos sex scandal rumors. I guess it was smart to keep them around.”

“Well, her stuff isn’t bad, either,” green uniform temporized. “And a lot of her readers couldn’t care less about what some random adults used to get up to on the internet.”

My face was burning by this point, and hands were going up, obscuring my view of the panelists. Bringing my program up to hide my blush, I took another look at the panel listing, and my fingers tightened when I saw the moderator’s pseud, listed next to an unfamiliar wallet name: Ciyerra.

I ducked out, just as one of the audience was called on with a question. “Who’s Josh Amos?”

 

I could hardly wrap my mind around this. I was too old for fandom, but there sat BalletChic. Instead of fading into the obscurity she’d already all but inhabited, let’s be honest, there she was ... comfortably dispensing lies and steering these youthful upstarts into smearing both my reputations. It was enough to try even the most steadfast of virtuously detached geniuses, I put it to you.

I found a quiet alcove and sank into a garishly-patterned armchair, staring out at the parking lot and groping in my purse for my phone.

Some old habits do die hard; I keep a sock Twitter account which I use, occasionally, to aid with promotional efforts or keep track of certain reviewers, although I log in rarely these days. I did so now, however, and made use of the panel’s official hashtag to make a few pithy comments about biased panelists, and the wisdom of crowdsourcing creative support in this contemporary marketplace. I spoke warmly, if by necessity briefly, about fannish support of our own in the greater public sphere, tossed in a few compliments on the panelists’ cosplay, and closed the app, feeling slightly better. It was almost time to meet Arc for dinner.

 

As I pulled out the chair opposite her in the hotel restaurant, Arc gave me a considering glance over the top of her glasses and wine glass, both. I sat.

“Well. I did think you were enjoying anonymity, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised,” she mused, to my befuddlement.

“I say, Judy, what are you on about?” I asked with mild, creeping alarm. In answer, she took out her phone, tapped a few times, and then slid it across the table to me. It was open to Twitter, filtered to mentions of Sharecon … all of which also, as it happened, included me.

It may be that I’d been out of the sock puppet game for too long, or maybe I’d just forgotten what dashed suspicious little busybodies fans can be. The internet, it seemed, was abuzz with discussion of my rumored presence at the convention, my “temper tantrum” over the discussion at the profic panel, and lively discussion about fans of certain ages and whether it was acceptable for professional authors to go “sneaking around” in their readers’ “safe spaces.” Lively to the point of increasing acrimony, I saw, as self-righteous teenagers and Bitter Old Fanfic Queens laid into each other in realtime.

At least there wasn’t any actual doxxing going on … yet. I shuddered, and handed the phone back.

“I may have lost my cool,” I admitted sheepishly, to her apparent amusement. “What should I do now?”

This appeal to her judgement clearly touched something inside her, because her eyes softened minutely. “Stay off the internet for the rest of the evening,” she said firmly. “Come with me to the vid show, and don’t worry about it. This is a tempest in a teapot, and after all … a little more buzz can’t hurt, with your release in a few weeks.”

I thought there might have been the mildest concession implied, regarding other recent PR missteps, but couldn’t be sure. Still, I was happy to concede to her terms. I handed over my own phone as well, enjoying a certain air of smugness from the other side of the table, and began perusing the menu with a very healthy appetite.

 

Sadly, reader, we never made it to the vid show. Ten minutes before it was due to start, convention volunteers called all attendees to the large hall where the dealers’ tables where all covered up with folded-over blankets for the evening. A number of painfully young-looking people informed us that they were the ConComm, and that the convention was being threatened with immediate, premature closure. It seemed that day pass sales had not met expectations, and that due to a contractual misunderstanding, hotel management was demanding a sizable down payment tout suite.

They were clearly about to start passing the proverbial hat amongst attendees when Arc stepped up and intervened.

One long conversation with the management, one cobbled-together Mina D. Malloy book signing for donations17, several shamefaced promises to reimburse said donations, and one wrist-and-hand massage later, and Arc was curling up around me in the hotel bed while I checked my mentions.

They were nearly wall-to-wall squee, apart from the odd mean girl conspiracy theory that I was in collusion with a pack of con artists. Josh would probably be proud.

I regarded my wife as she settled her head close to mine. She quirked her mouth questioningly at my expression as I rolled my eyes and sighed.

“Fine, I promise to run every marketing idea by you from now on.”

She tilted her face forward and kissed me, lightly, in approval. “Good.”

Tucking my head under her chin so she couldn’t see my smile, I added, “and thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she responded with calm satisfaction. “And welcome to the Old Guard.”

I snorted, and snuggled closer.

  


**Footnotes:**

1\. [It’s been known to happen.](https://www.buzzfeed.com/jennaguillaume/dick-soap-in-a-box) And it certainly made a splash, although in real-life circumstances, I have no idea if it had the slightest impact on sales. On the bright side, I also haven’t come across any reports of recipients using the soap in question for its obvious, but _not_ recommended, alternate purpose.

2\. This is a truly terrible Hannibal joke, but I’m not especially sorry.

3\. Minaverse version of the AO3, natch.

4\. Mina may be out of touch with fandom and clumsy with some contemporary(ish) forms of social media, but there is no escaping the [memes](https://www.vox.com/2018/5/15/17351806/is-this-a-pigeon-anime-butterfly-meme-explained)

5\. [I do love you, Yuletide.](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Ghost_Soup_Infidel_Blue)

6\. [How soon](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Trigger_Warning_Debate_\(2009\)) [we forget.](https://fanlore.org/wiki/AO3_Content_Discussion_\(2016\))

7\. If you’re wondering just who this might be accusing, [well.](https://web.archive.org/web/20161110053738/https://joestrummin.tumblr.com/post/148894949419)

8\. Obviously, this is referencing the so-called “purity culture” that has been so prominent in fandom in recent years, perhaps especially on Tumblr. In particular, this seems to me to invoke the distinction (or lack thereof) [between fictional tastes and real-life values](https://things-that-are-great.tumblr.com/post/158551244729/i-dont-support-it-in-real-life), an enduring topic.

9\. After all, Mina is _thoroughly_ accustomed to exhortations to Think Of The Children, in various iterations.

10\. I can’t find some of the most egregious examples of this attitude, which I saw circulating tumblr a few years back, although [this](http://telesilla.tumblr.com/post/160528541192/dragovianknight-brozoi-honestly-like-i-think) is a relatively mild one. [Dissenting responses](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Too_Old_for_Fandom%3F) seem to have been more thoroughly preserved, however, and can provide (necessarily biased) context. At the risk of exposing myself as a Fandom Old, it’s easy to be bemused by [the sort of thing this addresses](https://web.archive.org/web/20180822223741/https://littlesystems.tumblr.com/post/171672928967/littlesystems-littlesystems-fandom-adults) when one has vivid memories of lying about one’s age to evade the oh-so-oppressive attempts to mark content as inappropriate for minors.

11\. Hat tip to [Fanlore](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page), the source of much research and material for this story (and not a few extended tangents of my own, I freely admit).

12\. My interpretation of Arc and Mina’s … dynamic in certain contexts was shamelessly influenced by personal taste, but also by a number of hints (at least, regarding Arc’s proclivities) in canon and so-called [authorial fanon.](https://mina-de-malfois.dreamwidth.org/29458.html)

13\. I had a specific (rather long-ago) incident in mind with this phrasing choice, but I can find no record of it anywhere.

14\. I had far too much fun with the cosplay and such in this story. Our first panelist is clearly a member of [His Majesty’s Aerial Corps](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28876.His_Majesty_s_Dragon).

15\. Our elvish panelist, on the other hand, could be inspired by any NUMBER of sources. I had [a couple](https://www.goodreads.com/series/171685-october-daye) [in mind](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31944679-in-other-lands), but the reader should feel free to fill in per their own preference.

16\. I’m honestly a bit surprised that more fan-to-profic writers don’t use this tactic, though I suppose it does necessitate a good deal of deletion, for the look of the thing. (And what I wouldn’t give for a study in re: its actual impact in terms of sales and success in transferring one’s following.)

17\. Better than [an extra hour in the ball pit](https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/events/dashcon)? I suppose your mileage may vary.

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes added! Enjoy, and happy Yuletide!


End file.
